The Iron Dragon's Children
by Veronica Catherine Richards
Summary: Reality is not what it seems. Neither is this...
1. Prologue

First, my little rant. 

I do NOT want to see **another **Harry Potter rumor. I do NOT want to know **if **Hermione is going to be Head Girl, or **what **the last word in the series will be, or **which **character dies next. There are only **three **books left in the series, and we should stretch them out for **as long as we can**. I can't BELIEVE that J.K. Rowling is planning her books **so **far ahead in advance, but there you are. 

And **another** thing: Why does EVERYTHING in the Harry Potter series have to have some sort of **meaning**? Granted, it makes for a **very **tidy book, with no loose ends. But it's so…**smug**, you know? **Everything **has something to do with **everything else**. **Everybody **knows each other, or is related; **everything **was made by someone famous or has **some **kind of significance; **everything **is tied in **perfectly **with the plot. There are no loose ends, but it makes for a pretty **boring **series, because you can tell what's going to happen next. 

Compare the Harry Potter series to _The Iron Dragon's Daughter_, by Michael Swanwick. Where J.K. Rowling **never **wastes a character, Michael Swanwick gives you the feeling that he's giving **everyone **he knows a cameo in the book. Where Rowling puts in all sorts of rather **obvious **symbolism that actually isn't symbolism at all, Swanwick puts in bits that seem **completely **random, and half of the time, actually _are_ random. It makes for a disjointed book, but it makes you think for a **very **long time afterwards. 

Another bit of comparison: _The Iron Dragon's Daughter_ and the Harry Potter series begin the **same**—a **child **in **adverse conditions**, working as a veritable **slave**, until they are summoned to **leave **and begin a rich and exciting life. Except that **Jane **leaves via a **delusional piece of machinery**, and **Harry **leaves via a **Fat Bastard **look-alike that's been sent from a **teacher**. 

Now let me compare the **plot shapes**. The Harry Potter series looks sort of like **jagged sine waves**. It begins at **rock bottom **at the **Dursley **house, builds up the action as he leaves for **Hogwarts**, zooms upward as **life-threatening **things happen to him, reaches a peak as he defeats the **bad guy**, and then plunges down sharply again as **everything **is explained to him and he leaves for vacation. 

_The Iron Dragon's Daughter_, on the other hand, has a general **spiral **shape, as Jane leaves her former **dingy, drab **surroundings for the **glamour **of another level of society. It inevitably plunges **downwards **as she becomes disillusioned with her life…but not after some **very **large bumps and jags along the way. Then, it tightens into a tiny little **singularity**, and begins again in a slow, lazy loop. It's a very satisfying and **unconventional **plot shape. 

Oh, and don't get me started on the **superiority **of the Discworld series, please don't do that, because it'll make for a VERY **long rant**…Let's just say this. I would rather take the **Luggage **for a semi-sentient little sidekick than an **owl **any day, even a cute little **hyperactive **owl with an overly cute name. And the **Death of Rats **could beat up **Nagini **with **one skeletal claw **tied behind his back. And I would MUCH rather have **Ridcully **for a principal than **Dumbledore**. And **Angua **can cope as a **werewolf **a lot better than **that Lupin guy**, and **Voldemort **is **nowhere **NEAR as scary as **Granny Weatherwax**, even though she's **technically **one of the **good guys**. And I, personally, would cast **my **vote for **Havelock Vetinari **as chairman (or **whatever**) of the Ministry of Magic. 

Despite my complaints about geometric literature, the Harry Potter series is an **excellent **diversion. Well, it's pretty good when you **don't **compare it to Pratchett or Swanwick, anyway. Just let me say this: I'd rather be stuck in an elevator with even just **one **Harry Potter book than the **entire works of Tolkien. **

If you've been able to sit through my lecture without throwing up, flaming me, or pressing the back button, I deem you worthy to read the introduction to my latest series in progress. It's a crossover between _The Iron Dragon's Daughter_ and the Harry Potter series. If you actually agreed with everything I said, then I deem you worthy of reading the entire series, which I may eventually write if I get the time. And if you are all of the above and you also read Mad Magazine, I want to meet you. 

Many thanks to Emily Engelson, for reading all of the books I demanded she read, for not allowing me to indulge my baser instincts by watching WWF RAW IS WAR, for never, ever, ever allowing us to fight…but most of all, for reviewing every single freakin' one of my fanfics. 

Now then…the story. 

# The Iron Dragon's Children 

## Chapter Zero 

"In conclusion, the Fey World and the Human World have become increasingly connected. As commerce between the two Worlds has increased, both Worlds have come to a mutual understanding of each other. The changeling trade has been more tightly patrolled, and the Powers have been able to work together, bypassing rigid mathematical barriers. I would not be surprised, in fact, if soon we saw droves of tourists from the other World visiting our own." Jane Alderberry smiled and shuffled her notes. The hall erupted in applause. 

At the reception, Jane headed straight for the bar and ordered a stiff vodka martini. She hated lecturing, but she was good at it, and her skills were in demand. 

She seated herself on a barstool and delicately sipped her drink. A white-bearded man in glasses and full wizard robes sat down next to her. 

Jane turned to face him, slowly and deliberately. "Oh, hello, Professor. I didn't know you were here." 

The four Powers of the Human World were employment-based. There were three major magic schools in the World, and the heads of each of them were considered to be one of the Powers. The other one was the head of the Ministry of Magic. 

In the Fey World, the Powers were based on your social position, and how well you manipulated fate in order to get there. The four Powers were the Baldwynn, a fatherly philosopher who had managed to break through the World barriers at 130 miles per hour while making out with a transvestite and listening to "Tutti Frutti" by Little Richard; Galiagante, a TV show producer with secret perversions, whom Jane used to work for; Leysa Incolore, whose half-brother Jane used to sleep with, and who was also one of Jane's best friends in the Tylwyth Teg; and Kirsten Locksley, who had become a Power after Jane had left the Fey World. 

Albus Dumbledore smiled. "I go to all of your lectures, my dear. You're such a…fascinating person." He took in Jane's features, her short, curly black hair, her violet eyes, her aquiline nose, her prison pallor, the green-gold leather jumpsuit she wore, and the spiral-shaped scar stretched over her left temple. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you get that scar?" 

Jane touched it. "Oh, this? A mark of the Goddess's favor." She laughed hollowly. "Do you know, I was the first person not a Power to go through Spiral Castle and live?" 

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. "No doubt you've seen many things." 

Jane nodded. "Too many, really. Have you ever seen someone go up in smoke, right in front of your eyes?" She took another long drink of her martini. "Have a drink." 

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't drink," he said. "Tell me, have you ever thought of teaching?" 

Jane blinked. "I've taught. What, you mean at Hogwarts?" 

"As a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Dumbledore explained. 

Jane's mind drifted back to the one class she had taught. It was when her alchemy teacher, Professor Nemesis, had been out sick, and Jane had to show everyone how to perform an experiment. It had gone better than she had hoped, thanks to a technique Sirin, her lab partner, had showed her the night before…

Dumbledore misread her hesitation. "It's a very prestigious job," he assured her. "You'll get paid very well." 

Jane shrugged. "I may think about it," she said. "Don't you have a teacher there already?" 

"No," Dumbledore said tersely. "To change the subject, where are you staying tonight?" He winked at her. 

Jane laughed. "Professor, are you coming on to me?" 

Dumbledore harrumphed. "No, no, don't worry, you're much to young for me…I'm just wondering." 

"I'm staying with this guy I met yesterday," Jane said, indicating a tall, good-looking man with red hair in a ponytail, an earring, and dragon-skin boots. 

Dumbledore looked. "Bill Weasley? I thought he was g—" 

"Not," Jane interrupted, "tonight." She sucked the olive off of the stirring stick in her drink in a way that was calculated to make men sweat, and gave Dumbledore a suggestive grin. 

Jane had to give him credit. The man's expression didn't even change. "I see. So, you'll consider taking the position?" 

Jane shrugged. "Maybe."


	2. Factory Girl

Author's note: I do **not **hate the Harry Potter series. I can understand how my **previous note **may have given you that **misconception**. On the **contrary**, I **love **the series. I create **endless **stories about it and wish that I was a character in the series. I do **not **object to **any **of it; in fact, I have a **small shrine **dedicated to J.K. Rowling in my **basement**. I have also named all of my Pokémon after HP characters (for example, my Oddish is named Neville). 

I wrote that note in the middle of a **furious **war about a **minor **plot note in the fourth book; a friend and I were trying to figure out what the **infamous plot hole **that J.K. had to fix was. I was getting **heartily sick **of discussing it, and told my friend to go…**ah, well**. You can imagine the rest. The **bottom line **is, that note was written **in a fit of anger **with **children's fantasy literature**. 

I **still **urge you to go and read the **Discworld **series, by **Terry Pratchett**; and _The Iron Dragon's Daughter_, by **Michael Swanwick**. I also did **not **intend to anger **any **Tolkien fans. I simply happen to **dislike **Tolkien for the simple reason that **Tolkien's prose isn't even purple**; it's **indigo.**

The Iron Dragon's Children 

# Chapter One 

Ferrah of the Swancandle Dragon Factory, Moloch Division, _was _happy with her life. She is fifteen years old, and had just gotten a huge promotion, from Engine Assembly to Overseas Skills. She is loyal to the factory; she has the Greenleaf emblem tattooed on her arm, as did all of the workers; it is a stylized leaf inside of a many-toothed gear. 

Ferrah has shaggy hair down to her back, originally black, but dyed a sticky orange by the fumes and chemicals of the factory. She has tanned skin from working in the heat of the foundries and under fluorescent lights all day long; she has steel-grey eyes, shiny from the protective lenses that she had gotten when she first began work. She is tall and lean, with muscles like thin steel cords from lifting heavy objects all day, and long, slim fingers. She usually wears a tight-fitting green dragonskin suit, the uniform of the industrial witch. 

Ferrah works in the factory from 7 AM to 7 PM, a 12-hour shift. During the weekday, she rarely sees her family. Her father Jake works in the factory as well, grinding cogs. Her mother Beth is a schoolteacher, teaching children from 3 years of age to 10 years of age how to read and write. Ferrah has two younger siblings; Agren, a 9-year-old girl with silver hair and blue eyes, and Auren, a 7-year-old boy with gold hair and brown eyes. 

Ferrah has her own little workshop, a 5-by-5 room with a phone, a table to set the engines on, a tool board, and chair. She works with three hobs, which they call house-elves in Europe. There's Libby, who has whiskers and a tail; Effie, who has hair in a bun and wears glasses; and Elias, who tells stupid jokes. 

At least, she had it until yesterday. That was when Fata Greenleaf, the CEO of the company, called Ferrah into her office. 

Flashback: Ferrah enters the Fata's office. At first, the room is completely dark. Then Ferrah's eyes adjust. 

There are glow panels arranged in a square, hanging from the ceiling. Ferrah enters the boundaries of the square. The Fata is sitting in a high-backed chair, at her desk, a shiny black slab of marble that hangs suspended in mid-air. 

Ferrah takes the only available seat, a brocade cushion that has been thrown on the floor. She looks at the Fata apprehensively. 

The Fata is a tall woman, with milk-white skin and mirrored sunglasses. She has shiny black hair, pulled back into a tight, painful bun. She is wearing a tailored white suit, and white gloves. 

The Fata smiles. "Ferrah. I have heard good things about you." 

Ferrah nods, not daring to speak. She notices a faint ticking, as of a clock. 

The Fata reaches underneath her desk and produces a slim manila file, seemingly from nowhere. She flicks through it. "You have a good record, child. You began cleaning gears at age eleven. You were promoted three times in three years, and you are now in Engine Assembly. Is that correct?" 

Ferrah looks at her I.D. code tattooed on her hand. It is FJB-1-84-95-SCDF. That stands for Ferrah, first child of Jake and Beth, born in 1984, indentured to the Swancandle Dragon Factory in 1995. "Yes'm. I was—"

Fata Greenleaf cuts her off. "I know all that, Ferrah. We keep complete records on all of our workers." She puts the folder down on the desk. "Very complete records." She abruptly rises from the chair and walks to where Ferrah is sitting. "Stand up, child." 

Ferrah obediently stands up, standing at attention as she has been taught to do. Her back is ramrod-straight, her hands at her sides. Her eyes look straight forward. She hears the ticking more clearly now. It's a regular tick, for the most part. Every so often, it ticks just a moment before you expect it, or a moment after. It's an eerie sound, and very unnerving. 

Fata Greenleaf raises Ferrah's chin with one delicate hand. "You're quite lovely, my dear." 

"Thank you, ma'am." Ferrah hardly moves her mouth. There is a faint hum of machinery coming from around the square of light, the clicking of waldoes and the grinding of gears. It's impossible to tell exactly how large the room is. It could be just big enough to contain the square of light, or it could be miles wide. 

The Fata walks around Ferrah, appraising her. "What is your last name?" 

"I don't know, ma'am." Ferrah is puzzled. She doesn't have a last name. None of the workers do. They identify themselves by their company and their position. 

The Fata quirks one eyebrow. "Really. How long has your family been working for this factory?" 

"Since it was built, ma'am." Ferrah is pretty sure of this. Her grandmother, who lives in Caer Viejo, the pensioner's apartment complex, tells stories about when the factory was first built, when the Flint auto industry faltered and the burnt-out assembly plants were gutted from the inside and new, magical equipment was installed. 

"Hmm." The Fata stops, standing behind Ferrah. "You seem to have a penchant for magic. You should develop that talent." 

"How can you tell, ma'am?" Ferrah asks. She is surprised; no one in her family has ever shown signs of magical talent. All of the factory workers, of course, must be able to use magic to some degree, but it is taught, not known. 

"Instinct," snaps the Fata. "Ferrah, I am going to give you a test of your magical abilities." She returns to her desk. 

Ferrah remains standing. "Yes'm." 

Fata Greenleaf gives her a long, slow look. "What is beyond this desk?" 

Ferrah squints. "I can't tell." 

The Fata sighs. "Just stand there and look. If I'm correct, you'll be able to tell me exactly what I'm looking for." 

Ferrah blinks. The outlines of vague shapes form in her mind. Ancient windup toys, broken beyond repair, appendages hanging off of springs while wheels and fans spin in perpetual motion. Smooth snakes made of springs slither across the floor, stretching themselves out beyond imagining. Ancient birdcages and grandfather clocks, silently dancing in a nonexistent breeze. 

Ferrah describes this all to Fata Greenleaf, who seems unimpressed. "You have a small amount of magical ability," she says. "If you had been trained in magic before this, you would be able to see what's _really _there." 

"What _is_ really there, ma'am?" Ferrah asks. 

The Fata sighs. "Luckily, you have enough magical abilities to qualify for our voucher system. You're a little old to be starting school, but they'll have to take you. It's the Lore." 

Ferrah doesn't quite know how to respond to this. "Thank you, ma'am." 

The Fata gestures for Ferrah to leave. "You may go. Return to your workshop and start packing. You will find a letter on your worktable telling you what you need for the school. If you are lacking anything, dial extension 975." 

Ferrah turns and marches out of the room. 

Right now, Ferrah has just finished packing her suitcase. She isn't taking much, just a few pieces of clothing and a few trinkets of sentimental value. Nobody that works for the factory has very much to call their own. 

Ferrah slams down the lid of her suitcase. "All packed." 

Libby is sitting on the tool shelf, swinging her legs idly and chewing gum. Elias is packing in sawdust some of the tools that Ferrah uses. Effie is making a pot of tea. 

Ferrah turns to the hobs. "Okay, guys. This is the last time I'll see you for a while. Be good for your new worker, okay?" 

Libby jumps off of the shelf. "Yes, lady. We'll be good." She winks at Ferrah. 

Effie gives Ferrah a cup of tea. "Good luck, honey." 

Elias lugs something up to the table and sets it on top of Ferrah's suitcase. "We made this necklace for you!" 

Ferrah stares at it. It's a long, thin gear chain that's been woven into a choker of gears. "It's…lovely. What is it?" 

Elias looks put out. "Don't you recognize it?" 

"Do you remember the first engine you ever worked on?" Effie asks gently. "You know, the one where you stripped all the spark plugs by accident?" 

Ferrah laughs. She does remember. "Yeah, and I had to take it apart again! It's the gears from that, isn't it?" 

Libby nods. "We found it in the scrap heap. They'd torn it to shreds, but we thought we could give you our little protection." 

Ferrah recognizes the logic behind this. Hobs equate gifts received with freedom, and gifts given with protection. They are setting her free from the factory, and, at the same time, imbuing her with their protection. "That's so sweet of you!" She puts the necklace on, looping it over her head. 

The hobs clap. Libby gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, dearie. We'll be counting on you." After a long farewell, the hobs leave. 

Ferrah picks up the phone and, after a moment of hesitation, dials 975. 

After a few rings, someone picks up the phone. There is the clanking and grinding of machinery in the background, which is oddly comforting. "Blugg, assembly. Whaddya want?" a gruff voice asks. 

"This is Ferrah," Ferrah says. "Fata Greenleaf said to call this number if I needed something." 

There is a long sigh at the end of the line. "I'll send someone over." 

After a few minutes, there is a knock at the door. Ferrah opens it to see a scrawny fey wearing an orange messenger's vest. 

He is at least a year younger than Ferrah, has red eyes and blue hair that looks like dandelion fluff sticking out of his head. In spite of this, he is actually quite handsome. His motions are fluid and graceful, and he moves as though bouncing. 

The fey nods. "Ferrah? Name's Ratjon. Blugg sent me with this." He holds out a thick wad of bills. "For what you need to get." 

Ferrah is taken slightly aback. "Um…thank you." 

Ratjon grins, showing his snaggleteeth. "De nada. So, you want me to come with you or what?" 

Ferrah blinks. "Um…to where?" 

"Royal Oak," Ratjon says. "Near Detroit." He jerks his thumb back. "Come on, the car's running." 

With some misgivings, Ferrah picks up her suitcase and follows him. 


	3. Council Of War

Note: Okay, I know this is really short. But I don't care. I am preparing for my I.B. course, so consider yourself lucky that I ever got this far. OK? And if you have any ideas, E-mail me. PLEASE! 

It is a dark night, and rain lashes against the window of Albus Dumbledore's study. He is sitting on an armchair, his bare feet propped up on his desk, perusing through a copy of the _Liber Paginarum Fulvarum_. Even though it's summer, it's freezing cold in the room, and he is thankful for Fawkes, who lights the room with his glow. 

There is a battering of wings against the window. Albus sighs, puts down his book, and unlatches the window. A small iron dove flutters into the window. Fawkes edges away from it; magic animals don't like cybernetic ones. The dove spits a small piece of paper out onto the floor, and sits. A door in its back unlatches, and a small nixie climbs out. 

"Who is this from?" Albus asks, picking up the paper. 

The nixie shrugs. "And I should know how? They never tell me who it's from, just who it's to. Go on, read the letter already." It lights up a tiny cigarette. 

Albus scans the letter. "Damn it. All right, thank you. May I offer you a drink?" 

"Nah, got to keep a clear head for the way back," the nixie explains. It clambers back into the dove. "G'luck." The dove chirps and flies off. 

Albus watches it go. Nixies are weird creatures, a sort of Indiana Jones-ish house-elf. They're usually sent on dangerous missions, or to deliver extremely bad news. 

And this is bad news. It's from Leysa Incolore, the junior Tiend Power. Apparently, a citizen of the Lower World has killed Kirsten Locksley, the newest Tiend Power. The Tiend Powers are rethinking their diplomatic policy and may rescind all Lower World honors, which means, basically, that they will squash every single witch and wizard like so many bugs. 

There is going to be a meeting of the Powers tomorrow, in the Baldwynn's Ebony Tower. He can't afford to miss it. 

Albus sits at the long stone table in the middle of the Seat of Power. He's at one end of the table, the seat reserved for the Greatest Power of the Lesser Powers. The Baldwynn sits at the other end, a strange old man in a tailored suit. He stares blankly off into space. His daughter, Fata Annie Greenleaf, sits next to him. Annie isn't a Power yet, but she is the most likely candidate for a Power. She used to be married to Voldemort; a temporary arrangement, in order to allow his avatar to be accepted into the Tylwyth Teg. Annie is actually quite imposing, with black hair tied back into a bun, dark sunglasses, dark lipstick, black leather gloves, and a tailored outfit of white silk. 

Fata Leysa Incolore sits on Dumbledore's right. Leysa is a very pretty girl, with honey-colored hair swept up in a messy bun, blue eyes, and thin, gold-rimmed glasses. She's a scholar as well as a courtier, and has a bit of a soft spot for underdogs. She favors loose plaid shirts, and pearls. Leysa is one of the leading experts on trade and leakage between the two worlds; in fact, Jane Alderberry learned from her. 

Galiagante sits on Dumbledore's left. Galiagante is not as nice of a person as Leysa is. He has balding grey hair tied back into a ponytail, one pierced ear, a tan, and always wears wraparound sunglasses. He likes subtly flashy jewelry and cars, and reminds most people of nothing so much as a record executive. In fact, he is a highly successful producer. He's very casually cruel, and supposedly a pervert. 

Albus looks around. "Where's everybody else?" By "everybody else", he means the rest of the Lower Powers, Cornelius Fudge, Olympe Maxime, and Igor Karkaroff. 

"We've already discussed this matter with them," Leysa says sharply. "We were waiting for your input. I think you'll agree that this falls under the category of a diplomatic tragedy." 

Albus shakes his head. "It wasn't our fault," he said. "The man who killed Kirsten was a renegade. The Ministry does not condone his actions." 

Galiagante leans forward. "But he _was_ from your world," he says. "You should have prevented it. We are holding you responsible." 

Albus sighs. "So what are you asking for? Reimbursement?" 

"What we are asking for," Annie snaps, "is a sufficient amount of magical energy to hold reality together while a new Power is chosen and trained." She scribbles a figure on her notepad and slides it down to Albus. 

Albus reads it. His jaw drops, figuratively. The amount of energy requested is equal to that of most of the collective power of every student in Hogwarts, seven times over. "I can't possibly supply that much." 

The Baldwynn stirs, and everyone falls silent. The Baldwynn is the oldest of the powers, and seldom speaks. When he does, it's usually very important. 

"Then," the Baldwynn says, leaning forward and fixing Albus with his coal-black eyes, "war must be waged." 


End file.
